


Surviving the Wreck

by sowell



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:12:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sowell/pseuds/sowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing's ever simple with Veronica Mars. Weevil's day at sea gets a little complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surviving the Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at smut - be a little gentle, people. Dedicated 100% to Madame Librarian, even though she hates Weevil (whoops!), because if I hadn't promised her boat smut I would never have been able to finish this. Seriously. I'm still blushing. Also, this is a bit cracked out. There's a reason I don't write for ficathons very often. I mean, Madame Librarian says "boat smut" and this is where my mind goes? What is it that you people say? Ah, yes. ::headdesk:: 
> 
> Written for the vm_library Anchors Away Smutathon on livejournal.

Nothing’s ever simple with Veronica Mars. Weevil should have learned that years ago, but somehow he always forgets when she’s batting those blue eyes at him and asking for a favor. The one lesson he can’t seem to retain is that he always regrets it later.

It should have been easy. Take the rented motor boat out with Veronica, ID the ex-PCHer who’d been selling drugs off his yacht, let V snap some pictures, collect $200, and go his merry way. It was too bad he forgot that a certain ex-boyfriend of V’s was  _also_  a member of the marina. A certain ex-boyfriend with a tendency to stalk.

Logan appears on the wooden dock next to their boat just as their targeted yacht is pulling away from its pier.

"Day trip?" he asks, propping a foot on the edge of the boat right on top of the knot Weevil's about to untie.

"Shit," Veronica mutters. "We’re in a hurry, Logan, so can we just…not do this right now?"

Logan doesn’t budge. "Hot date, huh?" he asks sympathetically, eyes drifting between Weevil and Veronica.

"If it is, it’s none of your business," Veronica says sweetly, and Logan’s face darkens. "We broke up months ago," she continues. "So why don’t you get your foot the hell off my boat and leave us alone."

Logan smiles viciously. "First of all, it’s not your boat, sweetheart. It’s a marina rental. Second of all, you can’t blame me for being concerned." He leans closer to her. "You know how unscrupulous bikers can be," Logan confides, shooting a marked glance at Weevil out of the corner of his eye.

Weevil considers decking him, but Veronica is already agitated enough, so he settles for a hard stare. She glances back toward the yacht chugging steadily out of the "No Wake" zone, and Logan finally catches on.

"Oh, I get it," he says. "This is a detective thing, and Weeves is playing sidekick. Cute."

"Yes," Veronica snaps. "Yes, ok? Now let us go before you ruin it."

Logan taps his chin for a minute like a fucking fairy, then takes his foot off the rope. "Sure," he says, and hops down into the boat. "We’ll all go together."

And that’s when Weevil has to break his silence. "You are not coming out in this boat with us," he says very slowly, so there’s no way Logan can misunderstand. "There’s no way in hell."

"No kidding," Logan says, glancing around at the dingy interior in disgust. "This thing is a piece of shit. We’ll take mine."

"No we won’t," Veronica says shrilly. "Logan, get the hell out of here! We’re gonna miss our chance."

Logan idly squints up at the sun, as though he has all the time in the world. He glances at his watch, then over the side of the boat, then back up to the marina parking lot. He doesn’t answer until Veronica’s practically vibrating with rage and impatience in front of him. Then he simply says, "Mine’s faster."

Veronica goes still, and Logan smiles in triumph.

"Damn it," she says.

And Weevil realizes that this is going to get even more complicated than he’d anticipated.

*

They’re just over an hour out of the marina, keeping a nice, steady distance from the yacht, when the motor sputters and dies.

"Fix it," Veronica says frantically, shoving Weevil toward the bow as the yacht speeds out of sight.

He considers informing her he’s a mechanic, not a fucking sailor, but before he can even open his mouth, he sees what the problem is.

"It’s out of gas," he says dumbly. They both turn to look at Logan, who shrugs.

"You do have more gas, right?" Veronica says, voice rising. "Right?"

Logan shrugs again, and Weevil wonders fleetingly whether or not Veronica would report him if he murdered Echolls right here and now.

"What the hell is wrong with you, man?" Weevil asks. "Who takes their boat out without fuel?"

"Excuse me," Logan snaps. "I wasn’t exactly planning on staging a nautical chase with my bitch of an ex-girlfriend and her Mexican trash sidekick today. I’ll plan more carefully next time."

"Watch it," Weevil says, starting to bristle. "If you hadn’t fucking blackmailed her into this we wouldn’t be here. So drop the martyr act."

That has Logan on his feet. "I blackmailed her into this because I don’t trust her with  _you_ ," Logan sneers. "Every time you and I have a run in I end up with broken ribs, so you’ll have to forgive me if your presence doesn’t scream "safety" to me."

"You think you’re a better option?" Weevil scoffs. "Everyone around  _you_  ends up dead. Or tries to kill Veronica. Felix. Lilly. Beaver Casablancas.  _Your_   _father_." Logan’s face is mottled with anger, and Weevil can’t help but want to twist the knife a little more. He can see Veronica starting to shift out of the corner of his eye. She opens her mouth to say something, but Weevil cuts her off.

"And don’t give me that bullshit about wanting to protect her," Weevil spits. "You  _lost_  her, she  _dumped_  you. So quit harassing her and leave her alone."

That’s when Logan throws the first punch.

Weevil’s had it out with Logan Echolls enough times to know this: what Echolls lacks in strength and guts he makes up for in pure, raw fury. Weevil’s faced opponents far more intimidating and far more ruthless than Logan, but he’s never seen anyone look quite as insane as Logan in a fight.

Weevil gets in a solid enough punch to the gut that Logan doubles over, but he won’t fucking stay down. He charges Weevil, furious and crazy-eyed, and they both hit the radio console in mid-air, struggling.

Weevil hears the glass crack beneath his back with a spurt of dread.

*

It takes three minutes to ascertain that the radio is busted.

It takes 45 more seconds to figure out that cell reception is a ghost of a dream so far off shore.

It takes the three of them less than five seconds after that to realize that they’re stranded.

*

The first few hours aren’t so bad.

The sun is shining and Veronica is pink-cheeked and serene against the glitter of the waves and Weevil spends his time looking lazily off into the distance, waiting patiently for the yacht to come back into view. He figures what goes out must come in. Or something. And getting rescued by drug dealers is better than not getting rescued at all.

He can’t find it in himself to worry too much; after all, no one  _really_  goes missing at sea, right? This isn’t the fucking  _Pirates of the Caribbean_. And yeah, Logan's a pain in the ass, and yeah Weevil’s jaw is still smarting from where Logan landed one of his few punches; but if Weevil stretches out and closes his eyes and lets the sun and the waves drown out Logan’s arrogant-as-fuck drawl, then it’s bearable. Relaxing, even. He hasn’t had a day off in over a month, and even a chilly day outside is better than sitting in the stuffy Hearst maintenance office with the heater blasting on him.

Except that the yacht doesn’t come back into view. The sky starts to turn pink, then gray, and Weevil begins to wonder how far they’ve drifted, that they haven’t seen a single other soul. Logan went suspiciously mellow the instant he realized they were stuck, and Veronica never gives anything away, ever, but by the time the sun has sunk completely, Weevil can tell Logan and Veronica are starting to wonder, too.

"This is the last favor I agree to, ever," Weevil tells Veronica.

"Couldn’t you have put your foot down  _before_  this happened?" she asks, and Weevil thinks about tossing her right overboard.

*

They sit in a circle and drink. He has alcohol, and Logan has alcohol, and Veronica just rolls her eyes as they pull twin flasks out of their back pockets.

"Why is it that all men think carrying a flask around makes them more macho?" she says contemplatively.

"It doesn’t?" Logan asks absently, unscrewing the top.

"Maybe you’re just a lost cause," she says, arching an eyebrow.

"Be nice," Logan orders. "Or you don’t get any."

They have no cards and they have no dice, but they have each other, for better or worse. They play every stupid drinking game known to man – I Never; Desert Island (more than theoretical, in their case); Would You Rather; Truth or Dare, which basically devolves into Truth since, let’s face it – there’s not much you can actually  _do_  on a dead water wake jumper that doesn’t involve getting wet or getting naked, and none of them are drunk enough to want to freeze to death.

Weevil lies, mostly. He can hold his liquor better than either of them, and he watches as they snap at each other and snark at each other, predictable as anything. He wonders how long they'll stay away from each other this time around. He sees Logan staring at Veronica for a few seconds too long every time she looks away, and that’s how he knows that Logan is wasted.

Weevil can’t help but pity the guy, and that’s how he knows  _he’s_  wasted.

They take turns picking categories. "Best takeout food," Weevil says.

"Italian," says Veronica.

"Mexican," says Logan, then tilts his head in Weevil’s direction, all wide-eyed curiosity. "Or does that even count as takeout for you? How does that work, Weeves?"

"You’re a prick," Weevil tells him, and Logan grins.

"Hottest celebrity," Veronica offers.

Weevil picks Eva Mendes; Logan picks Angelina Jolie.

"Bullshit," Weevil says lazily. "If it’s not one of the Olsen twins I’ll jump out of this boat and swim to shore myself."

Logan raises his eyebrows. "Bon voyage."

Weevil starts ticking things off on his fingers. "Blonde. Skinny. More psychological trauma than the entire Neptune mental ward combined."

"Hey!" Veronica says, indignant, and Weevil doesn’t even bother to apologize for something they all know is true.

And Logan looks mad. Like, really, really mad. "Fuck you," he says, quiet and murderous. Weevil just lets the slow smile spread on his face.

"Lilly wasn’t all that skinny," Veronica points out.

"Yeah," Weevil says, taking another long sip. "But she was really more my type anyway."

Logan retreats to the other end of the boat and sulks for the rest of the night.

*

The second day drags on endlessly. Between the lunches Veronica packed for them and Logan’s random assorted crap they have exactly two cans of soda, two sandwiches, three apples, three bottles of water, and a few energy bars. The sun goes behind the gray clouds before noon and doesn’t come back out for the rest of the day. The wind picks up and the temperature drops, and before long Weevil’s jammed into the narrow space below the wheel, hugging his arms to his body and trying to shiver himself warm. January is still January, even in California, and the wind from the water numbs every inch of skin that it touches.

It’s nearly impossible to tell what time it is without the sun to guide them. The clock on Veronica’s phone doesn’t work without a signal and Weevil hasn’t replaced his watch since they let him out of jail six months ago. Logan’s watch is still ticking, but after the third time Veronica asks him to check it, he simply rips it off his wrist and tosses it at her.

It flies directly through her fingers and lands in the water, where it promptly sinks.

They all watch it glumly. "I really hate you sometimes," Veronica tells Logan.

"Yeah, well…join the club," Logan says grimly.

But Weevil catches the way she presses slightly closer to him, and the despair in the movement.

*

The hopelessness of their situation seems to hit all three of them at once. The hours crawl by, and Veronica gets more and more brittle, and Logan gets snider and snider, and Weevil wishes he could smother them both with the orange life jackets.

"My dad must be going insane," Veronica finally stutters out, tears in her eyes.

"Poor you," Logan drawls. "Thank god we don’t all have loving parents waiting at home. What a nightmare." Veronica sucks in a sharp, shocked breath.

Weevil's hand swells up to the size of a balloon when he punches Logan, but it’s worth it to see the bruise that blooms on Logan’s cheek.

"Great," Logan says, touching his face gingerly. "You’ve got him fighting your battles now, too?"

But by then Veronica’s recovered. "I don’t think he needs any extra motivation to punch you," she says evenly. "I know I don’t."

"Hey," Logan snaps. "At least you’ve got a reason to want to be rescued, ok?"

That shuts all of them up for a good long while. Which provides the perfect opportunity for Logan to start drinking again.

"You’re gonna use it all up," Weevil advises him mildly. "You think you need it now – wait till we’re out here a few more days."

Logan wordlessly slides open the compartment under the busted radio equipment and pulls an unopened fifth of vodka out from behind the lifejackets.

"Emergency stash," he says with a smile and a little shrug, and Weevil thinks he’s never had more affection for Logan Echolls’ alcoholic ass than at that moment.

*

It gets colder and colder and the rescue boats don’t come. They spend the third day in a drunken stupor, and by the time the third evening rolls around they’re barely lucid enough to notice. Weevil may be able to hold his liquor, but all he's eaten in the last twenty-four hours is half an energy bar and a third of a sandwich, and the vodka is cheap and potent enough to put anyone under.

They attempt to play Truth or Dare again, but it doesn’t work as well the second time around. Their questions move from the bleak to the hopeless, and then cease altogether as they find other things to talk about.

Veronica is the one who brings up Lilly again. That’s not surprising. What  _is_ surprising is that disaster doesn’t ensue.

"I still miss her," Veronica sighs, flat on her back, staring dreamily upward.

"Yeah," Weevil says. "Me too."

Logan doesn’t say something snide or come at Weevil with flying fists. Instead, he leans back himself and softly says, "Yeah."

Weevil remembers the day he finally told Veronica about the way Logan treated Lilly, about the bruises he’d left on her. Veronica had stared at him for a good thirty seconds, and then pointedly told him he was being ridiculous.

"Veronica," he’d said, "you don’t have to be scared of him. I  _know_. If he’s hurting you, I’ll make him stop, I swear. You don’t have to take that from him."

"Weevil," she’d said, speaking very and clearly and slowly, "Logan never touched me. And he never touched Lilly. I don’t know where you got that idea, but it’s not true."

"I saw the bruises," he’d said stiffly. "And I know what his father was like."

She’d gotten up and walked out on him.

Weevil always assumed she was lying for Logan. They broke up a few weeks later, and Weevil stopped worrying about it altogether, but he didn’t stop hating Logan.

But now, in the middle of the ocean with the two of them, stranded, intoxicated, and exhausted, he’s suddenly not so sure.

*

It happens almost by accident. He’s talking about Lilly again, her smile, maybe, or her laugh. He turns to see Veronica’s gaze on him, serene and steady. Affectionate. And then she leans over and kisses him lightly, just on the corner of his mouth, smoky and sweet with whiskey on her breath. 

Weevil would be lying through his teeth if he didn't admit to having his share of fantasies about Veronica Mars. He used to think she was Lilly, but softer. Now he knows she's Lilly, but stronger, and every bit as dangerous. He's thought about, all right, but he's always been way too smart to get tangled up in something like that again. So it must be the movement of the boat that sends her tumbling into his lap, or at least that’s what he tells himself. Because he would never, ever pull her there.

But once she’s there, stopping is impossible. He burrows ten finger paths into her soft blonde hair and inhales her, all her beauty and strength and sweetness and sharpness. He kisses her until she breaks away with a moan, and he’s hard and aching and even drunker than when he started. She drops a forehead against his shoulder, shuddering with cold and maybe something else, and he can see Logan across from them, watching them.

Weevil has to admit, he’s never quite seen anyone look the way Logan Echolls looks in that moment. Furious and lovesick and fascinated and manic all at once. He could never come close to unpeeling all the layers in that glance, and he suddenly has an inkling why Veronica can’t seem to break free of him, why Lilly couldn’t leave him behind. There’s something about him that asks to be examined, that  _clings_ , and Weevil finds he isn’t entirely immune to it.

He finds the last bit of sanity left in his brain. "None of that," he tells Veronica shakily. She doesn’t answer. She just pulls her skinny limbs in tighter, curls into him a little, and puts her lips, soft and parted, right against the sensitive spot on his neck. He inhales so fast that it makes a hissing sound above the waves slapping the side of the boat.

"I wouldn’t try and stop her," Logan says, just slurred enough that Weevil knows he’s still drunk, but not slurred enough to hide the fury riding beneath the words. "You know how she gets when she wants something."

Weevil knows. "She’s drunk, man," Weevil says a little desperately, clenching his teeth as her hand comes up under his shirt.

"Not that drunk," Veronica murmurs, adjusting herself so she’s straddling him, and her hips are right against his erection. She gives her body an experimental little roll, and Weevil’s hands tighten involuntarily against her sides.

Logan is struggling – Weevil can see that – but his voice is smooth when he says, "You heard her – she’s not that drunk. What are you waiting for Weeves? This could be your last chance."

"This isn’t right," Weevil tries, but she’s trailing her mouth up the side of his neck, her tongue soft and warm and wet as she sucks. "I mean, I don’t have – "

"I don’t care," she whispers, open-mouthed against his jaw. "I don’t want to think about it right now."

He sees her turn her head and lock eyes with Logan – one long, loaded look. Then she pulls her own shirt over her head, and that’s the end of it for Weevil. "Fuck," he rasps out.

Her nipples are standing pink and puckered with cold against her pale skin, and Weevil takes one into his mouth and sucks. She tastes like salt and girl, and her arms come around the back of his head to press him closer. He’s vaguely aware of Logan watching them, but he can’t think about it when her bare torso is rubbing rhythmically against him. He works the fly of her tight little jeans down and slips a finger under the waistband of her pink-lined panties to find her clit.

Weevil’s not sure if it’s the alcohol, or the close proximity, or the life-and-death situation, but he suddenly doesn’t give two fucks that Veronica isn’t behaving rationally, or that they’re all far too drunk to be considering this, or that Echolls is probably getting his masochistic self off just watching this. She’s moaning and clutching at him and all he wants to do is sink into her.

"Yes, yes," she urges, and he slides two fingers into her slick opening. It takes about a minute and a half to make her come, she’s so wet and ready. He feels her start to shake as he adds a third finger, brushing against the sensitive core of her with every stroke, and then she’s there. Her whole body convulses, twisting against him as he rides out the contractions with his thumb, and she collapses against him, boneless. She’s mumbling and shivering and half-sliding into sleep before he can even withdraw his fingers. He wraps his arms around her, sets her gently on the floor of the boat. She slumps against the wall and drops her head back, instantly unconscious.

The culmination of his high school fantasies, and it's over in three minutes flat. So much for sinking into her.

When Weevil can finally tear his gaze away from her, he sees Logan’s eyes are moving slowly over her body. Weevil can make out the bulge in his crumpled khakis from ten feet away, and it pisses him off a little, that Logan’s looking at her like that when she’s not even awake to tell him to go to hell.

"Enjoy the show?" Weevil growls. God, he wishes he were alone. His balls are so far past blue it’s not even funny. Logan’s eyes move from Veronica to him, heavy and assessing, and Weevil’s shocked at the hunger he sees there.

Logan climbs to his feet, tripping a little with the sway of the boat, and crosses to Weevil, staggering and self-assured as only the severely wasted can be. He gets right up into Weevil’s face, half-smiling. Weevil’s seen that look on his face before, and it never bodes well.

"Eli," he says, his voice soft and loose and a little vicious, "you should really be nicer to me."

"You should go to hell," Weevil says, only he can’t manage to infuse any malice into his tone. His vision is swimming from too much vodka and too much Veronica, and the air is suddenly very thick around them. The cold has mysteriously receded.

Logan reaches out and, very slowly, brushes a hand up Weevil’s stomach to his chest. Weevil’s mouth goes dry. This is wrong; this is not what he was expecting. Logan smiles a little wider, and then starts to trail his fingers down, down, down, over his stomach, past his hips, until his palm is resting right against his erection. Logan presses, just a little, and Weevil bites back a moan.

This isn’t right; this isn’t normal. But they’re far, far away from normal at this point, and they may never get back. Logan dips his head a little closer, bites his bottom lip, and then slowly, slowly, starts to undo Weevil’s fly. All sorts of rational courses of action go through Weevil’s mind. He could push Logan away. He could throw Logan overboard. He could explain, very clearly, that he is no way, shape, or form, attracted to the male sex, and especially to fucked up little rich boys with daddy issues. He could turn his back right now, jerk himself off, and never give Logan Echolls that kind of power over him. He could take Logan’s hand and press it even harder against himself.

He does nothing.

Logan drags his zipper down, click by click, and then starts on the button, knuckles bumping against the bare skin of Weevil’s stomach. Weevil glances at Veronica’s still-closed eyes, at the steady rise and fall of her breasts. Logan follows his gaze, then looks back at him.

"Last chance, Weeves," he whispers, like the spawn of Satan that he is.

"Get on your knees," Weevil says hoarsely.

Logan drops down with a smirk. Five seconds and he has Weevil’s pants down around his knees. Ten seconds and he’s taking Weevil in hand and putting his mouth on him and _Jesus Christ_. Logan Echolls may be a prick and an idiot, but the guy’s got a mouth like no one Weevil’s ever met. Weevil has to put a hand on the wall of the boat, just to keep standing.

He doesn’t know why, but Logan feels like Lilly all over again. The two of them, rich and careless and tempting when they shouldn’t be. He knows what this is about, and it’s not sex. It’s revenge – for Lilly and for Veronica and for everything else that Logan could never hang onto and that he thought Weevil should never have. Weevil knows it, and he’s having trouble giving a shit.

He looks again, and Veronica is staring at them, heavy-eyed and fascinated and suspiciously lucid. He sees her lift herself to her feet out of the corner of his eye. She disappears out of his line of vision and then he feels her behind him, her hands running up his back.

"Well," she whispers right against his ear, "you’re having quite a night." Her hands slip around to his stomach, light and skimming, and her teeth sink gently into his earlobe. He jerks involuntarily, thrusting.

He can’t think about who is sucking him off and he can’t think about how messed up this is, so he finds something else to focus on besides Logan Echolls’ tongue. The vivid stars, the dark heap of his clothes on the floor, the soft rocking of the boat under them, the icy cold that he stopped feeling five minutes ago.

He grips the side of the boat a little more tightly, feeling the slim outline of Veronica’s body imprinted into his back, her lips at the nape of his neck. Logan’s hands are sliding up the side of his hips, and he’s taking Weevil’s cock so deep and tight into his throat that Weevil can barely remember his own name, and Weevil’s pretty sure it’s never been this good in his life, ever.

The boat dips deeply to the side, sending everything sliding, and they all stumble a little. Veronica’s fingers tighten against him and Logan’s hands grip his backside and then he comes, long and hard into Logan’s mouth, his whole body shuddering. Logan just sucks harder, takes it all in until Weevil slumps back against the wall, lost in a blur of throbbing pleasure and alcohol. Logan pulls away and wipes his mouth, and his eyes are so satisfied that anyone else would be hard pressed to figure out which one of them just got the blow job. Weevil would hate him for it, if he had one iota of energy left.

Just before he closes his eyes, he sees Veronica slide up to Logan’s kneeling figure and tangle her fingers in his hair. Logan buries his face against Veronica’s stomach, and all the smugness in his eyes is gone when he gazes up at her.

"Thank god," Veronica says, light and mocking and far more sober than she should be. "I thought you two would  _never_  get around to that."

Weevil thinks he must be going just a little bit insane.

By the time the post-orgasmic fog has cleared his brain enough to process reality, Logan and Veronica are fucking next to him, utterly wrapped up in each other. He turns his head to watch them, because at this point - why the hell not? Everything else is just blackness anyway, and these too are way beyond caring who’s looking. And they’re not just fucking – they’re  _nasty_  fucking, all teeth and twisting fingers and gasps that are as much pain as they are pleasure. Because somehow they’ve never figured out that they’re disaster together, when everyone in the entire community of Neptune, Weevil included, can see it. But they sure can go at it.

Veronica is on top, her slim body practically blinding white in the darkness that surrounds them. Her hips are slamming down against Logan’s, she’s gasping like she’s been sprinting, and she’s the fiercest, sexiest thing Weevil’s seen since Lilly Kane first smiled at him. They’re frantic against each other, and it’s clear they’re not going to last long at the rate they’re going. Weevil’s little winded just watching them.

Logan drags her down with a hand on the back of her neck and kisses her deeply and Weevil feels an answering tremor in his own stomach. And when Logan curses and thrusts wildly up into her, and Veronica  _screams_  and goes limp, Weevil’s right there with them. They lie stuck together, panting into each other’s mouths for a long minute, and then Veronica slithers off of Logan and drops her head against his chest. Weevil just watches the two of them until she reaches back, wraps a hand around his wrist, and weakly tugs.

He curls around Veronica, barely conscious of Logan’s forearms pressed tight between them. He feels like he’s been fucked right out of his body and into a new one. Because this? This is not ok with him. This is post-apocalyptic, Lord-of-the-Flies shit, and the logical portion of his brain wants no part of it. But he must have left his brain back in his old, pre-fuck body, because he’s got his mouth against Veronica Mars’ skin and Logan Echolls’ bare wrist digging into his stomach, and he suddenly doesn’t care so much that he’s probably going to freeze to death in a pansy-ass motor boat in the middle of the ocean.

"We don’t have much food," Veronica says tiredly, after a few silent minutes. "A couple days, if we’re careful." The vibration of her voice travels all the way down to Weevil’s groin.

"Screw careful," he hears Logan say, muffled by Veronica’s body between them. "I say we feast tomorrow, come what may."

" ‘Come what may?’ " Weevil can’t help but interject. "Jesus, who talks like that?"

"Eat Logan," Veronica mumbles.

"What?"

"Logan will probably starve first, he’s the biggest," she continues, very sleepy and rational. "We can eat him if we need to."

Logan, of course, isn’t phased by that one bit. Because these two must be the most fucked up lovebirds Weevil’s ever come across. Ever. "How do you know you won’t be the first to go?" Logan asks, nuzzling against V’s goose-pimpled shoulder. "You’re the littlest. The smallest ones are always the weakest."

"I don’t need as many calories," she informs him.

Despite all his best intentions, Weevil can’t help but chime in with, "Plus, she’d be too bony."

"But she tastes the best," Logan points out.

Well, Weevil can’t argue with that. For the first time he’s got this panic inside, that’s starting to take over his brain. This is fucked up; this is  _so fucked up_ , and he can’t think about how much food they do or don’t have left, and how he would rather be the first one to go than the last one left to keep surviving on his own, or how, now that his dick has calmed down a little, he’s starting to feel the cold again, deep and heavy in his bones.

Long after Veronica and Logan stop debating the merits of cannibalism and drift into silence, Weevil is still awake, staring at the night sky.

*

He doesn’t sleep for long. It’s still pitch black when something drags him into consciousness. After a minute he realizes it’s Veronica, shivering against him. Then he realizes that it’s not her at all; it’s Logan on the other side of her, trembling so violently that it’s moving all three of them. Somehow Veronica has managed to inch away, so she’s plastered against Logan, and Logan is holding her so tightly that Weevil wants to say something, to warn him before he breaks her in half.

But he’s alternately whispering frantically into her hair and touching her face, promising that he loves her and he needs her and he won’t let her die and he’ll always, always protect her. He’s practically rocking the boat, he’s shaking so hard. Veronica is whispering, too, trying to soothe him in a voice that has the same miraculous effect as cashmere tossed over Weevil’s freezing skin.

Private moment or not, they’re all sharing warmth for survival now, and Weevil wants a little closer to that source of heat. He shifts a fraction, bringing himself flush against Veronica’s curved back, and she and Logan both go rigid.

"Don’t mind me," Weevil says sleepily. "Although you might want to quit while you’re ahead, Echolls. You’re about thirty seconds from cutting off your balls entirely and handing them to her."

Logan chokes out a surprised laugh, and now it’s Veronica who’s weeping, her shoulders silently shaking as the winter waves break quietly against the side of the boat.

"This is so fucked up," Logan moans, half-desperation, half-hysterical humor. Disbelief through-and-through.

"You’re coming to this conclusion  _now_?" Weevil says, absently trying to calm Veronica’s sobs with soothing strokes up and down her back. "And you expect me to believe you didn’t buy your way into college?"

Logan’s already forgotten him. "Hey," he says, trying to drag Veronica’s face up. "Hey. It’s fine. We’re gonna be fine. And tomorrow, when it’s light out, we’ll figure out how to tell which direction the harbor is in, and we’ll find a way to get there." His eyes lock with Weevil’s over her smooth blonde head. "Even if Weevil has to jump in the water and pull us in."

He wants to say something mean in return, just to get some familiarity back into this whole encounter, but he doesn’t like the way Veronica is shuddering between them, doesn’t like how small she suddenly feels. Maybe Logan is right, maybe she will be the first one to starve to death, just because she’s little, and skinny. He doesn’t want anything to happen to Veronica Mars on his watch. So he says, "Sure. You know you can count on me, V. Right?"

Maybe the cold is starting to get to him, or maybe the taste of her has just made him delirious. Maybe he wants to believe Logan’s words himself, as much as he wants Veronica to believe them. But when she says, "Right," in a small voice, and then again, a little clearer, he feels better.

She lifts her head then and kisses Logan, long and deep and a little desperate, and he can feel that stirring again, that something beginning to heat up between them. Beginning to heat up in him, too. He slides a hand down the trim length of her, over a (slightly bony) hip, down a smooth thigh, and his hand knocks into Logan’s. His cock is starting to get hard again against the round little curve of her ass, and he hates to admit it, but the naked hunger in Logan’s eyes and the way his long fingers accidentally brush Weevil’s penis in the sweep of Veronica’s body…. Well, those things aren’t doing anything but turning him on more.

He doesn’t want to die. He especially doesn’t want to die in a glorified dinghy with Logan Echolls. But if he has to go, he thinks, gasping a little as he slips in to Veronica’s heat, this isn’t such a bad way to do it.


End file.
